


The Fog

by telm_393



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Depression, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implications of Past Child Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telm_393/pseuds/telm_393
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur hasn't always been happy, and the truth is that even though things aren't as bad as they used to be, sometimes he still gets...low.</p><p>But that's a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the following prompt on cabinpres_fic: 
> 
> Arthur suffers from depression. No one except Carolyn knows. He's fine when they are on trips, because his mind is occupied. After St. Petersburg though, it becomes worse and eventually every one finds out.
> 
> It also fills the "chronic illness" square for my dark_bingo.

"Arthur Shappey, you're up!" the woman calls from the front of the room.

He looks around until he realizes it's him. He's Arthur Shappey.

And he's not going to be a pilot.

He doesn't think he'd be able to keep a plane up in the air. He's so heavy, he bets it would just fall right out. He's always walking around feeling heavy, like there are stones sitting inside his chest and making his heart sink right into his stomach. 

He's really tired. He's tired all the time. He wants to go home and sleep. That's all. Sleeping makes the fog around him stronger and stronger while he slips away until he's gone. He always falls asleep crying, but then when he wakes up for a moment he feels okay, just for a couple of seconds, until he doesn't again.

Arthur thinks he used to be happy, but he's not very good at remembering how that was. He's always forgetting things, to tell the truth. Always. But he did used to be happy, he used to smile and laugh and always feel like he wanted to smile and laugh, not like now when his laugh comes out weak and giggly and his face always hurts when he tries to lift up the sides of his mouth. 

He really does try his best to be happy, though, because there's not a reason not to be, is there? He's fine. When he was little and dad was a bastard like mum says he was, he'd cry but then he'd feel better all the way. He never feels better all the way now, though, even when he does feel better he feels halfway bad, and he doesn't understand why. 

Sometimes, though, he doesn't even get out of bed because the day feels too much like, well, a day. He wants it to always be night so he can sleep forever. 

His mum always goes into his room eventually, when it's one or two in the afternoon, and she sits on his bed and says, "Well, don't you think it would be best for you to face the day?"

He always mumbles something that doesn't actually mean anything, usually isn't even words because on days that he really, really can't get out of bed he just can't talk either.

He can't face the day, is what he's always trying to say, and his mother always sighs sadly and he doesn't want her to be sad, and sometimes he starts crying about it, but he cries about anything lately, even though until all this heavy fog came along he never used to cry at all, hadn't cried since he was five and his father hit him for the third time.

Mum never tells him to cheer up, though. She used to. He doesn't know why she stopped, but then he thinks he does. She knows he's not going to just like he knows he's not going to.

Arthur's never going to be completely happy again and it scares him, it scares him too much to think about, so he doesn't think about anything at all when that thought comes to him, just stares at walls or at the floor or at the ceiling, stares and stares until he finally falls asleep again.

Most of the time, though, even if Arthur doesn't want to get out of bed, he does. He only doesn't on the really, really bad days. He has to admit, though, that most days are just regular bad days, and they really aren't that much better than the really bad days. Sometimes, every once in a while he has good days, and he feels halfway good and sometimes even closer to all the way good than just halfway, and his smiles don't hurt so bad because they're real and he feels real actual feelings poking through his fog instead of just hollow but heavy at the same time kind of sad feelings. He tries his best to be there for mum, because he loves her, he knows that, and he knows she's not happy either. 

He tries his best to pretend to be happy like he used to be, like he knows he used to be, because he figures that if he pretends long enough one day he'll wake up and it'll be true. 

Besides, when he's at school he has to pretend even harder because he knows he can't let anybody think anything's less than perfect, that's what mum said. He doesn't want to get taken away, after all. But then after school all his energy's spent and it's hard to convince his mum he's okay even though he tries his best because he's fine, really. There's nothing to feel bad about. 

Dad's finally gone, and Arthur should be glad even though it was right around the time they left, when he was fifteen, he first started to have days with the fog. Dad didn't want him. Dad hurt him.

He really hurt him, and Arthur can't really understand why he'd do that, because all the other kid's dads seem to love them at least some.

It's probably because he's stupid, because he really is stupid. He doesn't understand things. He just doesn't, and it gets harder with the dust on his brain until sometimes he doesn't even understand what people are saying to him, if they're talking or not. Everyone says he's so, so stupid. And he is. They're not lying or just making fun of him just because. It's really true. It used to hurt a lot, but suddenly it doesn't so much.

Arthur's having trouble caring about things. He feels like he's drifting, or floating, like a ghost. He tells this to his mum and she says, "You're no ghost, Arthur, you idiot boy, you're right here," and her voice cracks on the last word but her eyes are dry.

Mum sends him to doctors a lot, ever since he was fifteen and stayed in bed all day and just cried for a really long time. 

He never goes to one for more than one appointment, though. He doesn't really know why. Most of those appointments are just blurs. He doesn't talk and when he does the doctors don't understand him and then later he hears mum shouting all the time that she's not going to "medicate" him or "section" him. He doesn't know what either of those things are and he doesn't ask.

Arthur doesn't really like things like he used to like them, but he likes planes. A lot. He's wanted to be a pilot for years and years, ever since he properly liked planes, and he remembers that when mum got GERTI in the divorce and talked about the new airline she was going to make and how much better life was going to be, that was one of the last times he can remember being completely happy. 

When his mum tells him she got him an interview at an aviation academy, the fog is bad enough that the happiness that pokes through only pokes through a teeny little bit, but it does. He smiles wide, and it only hurts a little, and says: "Brilliant".

And that's how he ends up sitting in a room with muppet baby pilots without being able to move even a little bit because he's definitely not a muppet baby pilot, he's definitely not even anything. 

"Arthur Shappey?" the woman calls again, and Arthur just sits there. He should say something, he should talk, but he's not real anymore so instead he's stuffed with cotton so he can't. 

"Arthur Shappey?" the woman calls one final time, and Arthur tries to try to stand up, open his mouth, do anything, but the fog is so, so thick that he can't. He just can't.

It takes him a long time to stand up and walk outside because it's like he's walking through mayonnaise, something thick and creamy and heavy, and when he gets into his mum's car, she asks him how the appointment went and he shakes his head.

"Not well? Then they're idiots, Arthur, the lot of them. You can be the MJN Steward once we get it off the ground."

"That would be brilliant," Arthur says, but he doesn't smile because he can't. He can't do anything. He wants to go to sleep. "But I didn't even go. I couldn't."

"What do you mean, you couldn't, Arthur?" His mum's voice is sharp in a way that usually makes him draw back a little, but he doesn't today because nothing's sharp today. "It took me a long time to get that interview."

"I tried, mum, but I couldn't."

"For goodness' sakes, Arthur, why?" His mother sounds...tired. 

"And I don't think...I'll be Steward after all."

"Why on earth not?"

"I don't think I'll be around, because I'm pretty sure I'm going to die."

"What do you mean?" His mother's voice sounds pulled tight like plastic over a bowl of fruit.

"Do you think it'll hurt? I just want it to be like sleeping, mum, only I won't be tired anymore, and it'll be brilliant."

And then he goes to sleep just as his mother slams her hands on the steering wheel and takes a gasping breath and then starts turning the car around and driving a way that's not home.

When Arthur wakes up he's in a front of a big building and it has a wonderful garden and the building is named lots of long words, and his mum says, "This is a hospital, Arthur," in a voice that sounds like it's hurting too much to work right.

He blinks, slow. "Oh," he says because he should say something and something important is happening right now.

His mother hugs him even though she hasn't in ages when she leaves, and he cries just like he used to when she'd leave him at school. There's a nice nurse who says, "Oh, it'll be alright. It's nice here. We're going to make you feel better."

He doesn't say it because he's forgotten how to talk and it wouldn't be polite anyway, but he wants to tell her not to really count on it, because he thinks he's been really sick for a really long time.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur gets better in bits and pieces, and the truth is that he doesn't get better at all. 

Sometimes he still has days when he can't get out of bed, but they're not every day anymore, so that's good. Sometimes he even has brilliant days--in fact, lots of the time they seem to be most every day.

It's been eleven years since he was at his worst, and Arthur can say that he is truly and completely happy.

+

Except for when he's not.

+

Being on GERTI helps a lot. The flights are fun even when they're not supposed to be, and it's easy not to pay attention when the fog starts coming back sometimes. 

It's easy to pretend he feels better, and then sometimes that even makes him feel better.

He takes his little yellow pills, too, and they work pretty well. Sometimes he skips taking them, just to see if he can.

He usually can't, not after a few days. He always starts back up again, because usually his mum finds out.

His dosage has gone down over the years, and mum says that's a good thing, and it feels like a good thing too, so that's what it is.

Having friends is nice, too. Arthur never used to have friends, but now he's got Skip and Douglas, and it's brilliant.

+

After they go to St. Petersburg, after he sees dad again for the first time in a long time, Arthur starts feeling the fog rolling in again. It comes back sometimes, but this is worse than his usual bad days, he knows it.

He starts to feel his heart sinking a little every once in a while in that way he knows really well.

He tries his best to lift himself up, to think of all sorts of things to do, to distract himself and just be happy, and that usually works but sometimes now it doesn't.

Sometimes at night lately the fog gets even worse and he starts crying before going to sleep again, just trying to get it all out, to make it leak out of his eyes, but it doesn't work.

His dad always said crying didn't solve anything, and it doesn't, but Arthur can't stop, not when he feels like this.

It's like every little thing makes that funny sting come to his eyes.

He doesn't want this. He has the same scared feeling he gets every time he starts being like this again, that it'll be like the first time and that the fog will get so bad he won't even be able to live through it, that he'll spend years feeling bad again. That he'll have to go to the hospital again.

He doesn't think he can do that all over, he thinks that maybe if the fog ends up being as bad as it used to be, he'll just off himself, because he can't do that again. 

+

One day, Arthur wakes up and doesn't want to get out of bed.

Over the night the fog has settled over him like a blanket, and it's awful.

He wants to go to sleep again, but he doesn't think he can. He stomach hurts a little.

His doctor says sometimes there are times like this. He calls them "rough patches" but says that they'll pass if Arthur takes his medication and tries the exercises about positive thinking and stuff.

None of Arthur's rough patches have been this bad for years, though.

He thinks maybe he's getting really sick again, finally, after all these years of being happy.

What if he's getting sick for the last time?

+

The rough patch keeps going. Every day Arthur wakes up and the fog is little thicker. Sometimes it's not as bad throughout the day, like when something really brilliant happens, like when Martin says he's seeing a new girl. The fog lifts almost completely at that, and Arthur smiles and smiles even though at the end of the day it comes back.

+

His mum notices after a little while, takes him to the doctor, who looks at him with that frowny face that means he's worried, and says, "Arthur, your mother says you haven't seemed yourself lately."

Arthur shrugs and smiles because that day his rough patch isn't that bad and his smiles don't hurt. Then the smile goes away. "What if this time is the time I just keep getting worse and worse until the fog makes it so that I really can't keep going?"

"You shouldn't think that way, Arthur. You have to really believe you'll get better this time just like you have every time. If you think that you'll get worse, you'll just feel worse and worse, it's something called a self-fulfilling prophecy. Remember you are strong and you have beat this before, and you will again." The psychologist says soothing things for the rest of the session, and when he steps out of the office Arthur feels better.

His pills get upped a little, just for a few weeks, so he can feel better faster.

He tries to think positive, but then he wakes up in the middle of the night and cries and cries because he's never getting better.

Arthur's never been good at remembering things, even the things that are important.

+

Arthur wakes up with the fog all over his body, stuck in his ears like cotton and covering his mouth like one of the oxygen masks they've got on the plane, only instead of oxygen it's just making him breathe in more bad, empty feelings.

Maybe he'll feel better once he gets on the plane, he thinks, because he's going on a cargo flight, a long one over Russia again, like the one with the horse.

It's not a very good attempt at positive thinking, because really long flights are boring, and then he and Douglas and Martin are staying in Russia overnight.

Arthur doesn't want to.

He doesn't usually not want to do things, but as his mum calls for him and there's a horn honking outside, Arthur really, really doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to do anything, and he knows this is bad.

He gets up anyway, even though he can feel himself dragging down, and he dresses and goes to the kitchen and grabs the carry-on mum's packed like she does whenever he's not well, and he doesn't eat anything. He doesn't take his medication, either, when he runs out the door. He forgets. He only remembers once he's in the taxi with Douglas and Skip, and he doesn't really care even though he should, probably.

Douglas says something and Arthur can barely hear him through the pounding of his heart, but it's, "Good morning, Arthur."

He smiles and he can barely, barely do it. It makes him want to go to sleep again. "Good morning, chaps!" he says as brightly as possible. "Today's going to be brilliant!"

He can feel his cheeks flushing at the lie and he turns away towards the window as the car starts going. He closes his eyes and wants to cry, but can't, not in front of other people.

Today's not going to be a brilliant day.

Today's not even going to be alright.

Today's just going to be bad.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur hates days like this. He hates having to pretend to be happy because he's a happy person, he really is, his brain just forgets that sometimes, so he's got to be happy all the time because that's what people expect. That's what he expects, at this point, because anything else is bad and wrong. After he's tasted true happiness, he's not keen on losing it again.

Arthur doesn't like hating. He never hates people, except maybe his dad, but that's only a thought he has when he's in a mood like this, because when he's right he really doesn't hate anyone, not even his father. When he's okay, his dad is alright.

Arthur doesn't hate Russia, he doesn't, because it's bad to hate a whole entire place. Russia's just alright, because it's a little big, isn't it? What business does Russia have being so big anyway? Cargo flights are usually calming for him, because sometimes the flights with people can get a bit stressful, even though with the medication he doesn't even feel his spirits getting down and oh no.

The medication.

He's supposed to take it every day, every single day because his mum gets mad if he doesn't and he wants to make his mum happy, he doesn't want to break her heart like he did for so many years when he was in his especially sad mood. And past that, he wants to make himself happy, because his therapist says that that's what he should want most, that it's well and good that he wants to make his mum happy, but doesn't he want to be happy? He really does, and he is, but whenever he loses that happiness it hurts really bad.

Arthur should've taken his medication, but he didn't remember it.

He's so stupid, how could he possibly be so stupid? He wishes he wasn't this way.

He's been making the same cup of coffee for what seems like years and years but was probably only a few minutes because when he's like this it's like time goes by really slow but really fast at the same time. Douglas is over the intercom now, though, and he wants his coffee. Arthur doesn't blame him. He himself doesn't drink coffee, because the caffeine doesn't mix so well with the medication, and when he's tried it before it was pretty awful, but lots of people seem to really like it, so it must be brilliant just because. Not everybody thinks like Arthur does, but everyone's opinions are brilliant unless they're not. He learned that in Ipswich.

Arthur takes a really deep breath around the heavy, heavy, heavy fog in his chest, because he has to work now, he has to be alright now, because nobody else can know, he can't be anything but really, really good.

Imagine what dad would say, that little voice that Arthur knows is bad news whispers in the back of his head, dad would say you were weak and defective and not fit to be his son because there's no reason to not be alright.

Arthur pours out the coffee he made at first because he's no good at making coffee, no good at anything, and he makes a new cup, one that's hot, and then he makes another one and he pastes on a smile and goes to give it to Skip and Douglas, who are his friends and can't know he's defective.

Skip and Douglas drink the coffee and make faces at the taste but don't really make fun of it and don't call Arthur a clot, which Arthur is glad about because if they had the fog might have frozen and then unfrozen, which means he would've cried, and men don't cry, grown adults don't cry, ever.

Arthur wishes he wasn't so stupid, but his therapist would tell him that those are just abusive thoughts his mind tells him to make him feel worse. But what does his therapist know, really?

Arthur starts thinking about making it all go away, but he doesn't really want to die, he thinks, so he just sinks into a seat on the airplane and tries his best not to think at all. His body hurts a little, in that funny way it does when the fog's settled hard and heavy, and he wraps his arm around his stomach. He feels queasy, hasn't eaten all day. He falls asleep for a while.

When he wakes he goes to the flight deck, just because that's what he usually does. He doesn't want to join in on Skip and Douglas' games, because he can't get those games on a good day when he's happy and has energy. On a normal day, lately, he guesses.

But the fog is so, so...too much. Arthur leaves the flight deck and goes to sleep again and again and dreams he's drowning and it's alright, and then it's awful and then it's alright again, and then he dreams the water's blood and he doesn't understand at all and how stupid does he have to be to not understand his own dreams?

He has to go back to flight deck after a while and smile and be himself because that's what he'd do on a normal day. Douglas looks at him funny, though, and asks him, "Arthur, are you feeling well?"

And Arthur isn't terribly good at lying, so he mumbles out something like, "Me? Right, fine, I'm really quite fine, you know," and leaves because Skip and Douglas probably don't really care and they can't follow him either because they're flying the plane.

Arthur goes to the bathroom, but not to actually go. He looks at himself in the mirror instead. He looks a little pale, and there are circles under his eyes that don't look right at all. There's something funny in his eyes, though, that he recognizes. It's the fog. It scares him. Not like dad scares him, though. More like...a funny, dull kind of scared that happens real quick and that he can't shake. It hurts like a butter knife sinking deep in his gut or...or something like that.

Arthur knows there's something really wrong with him, and it's coming back. Maybe. Maybe not. He should've taken his medication.

He looks at his watch. There's still two hours to get to Russia. Arthur wants to get there now.

He goes back to sleep. It's uncomfortable, but he's okay with that. He's used to being uncomfortable. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it makes him stronger. Maybe all of this makes him stronger. Maybe it doesn't. He forgets.

Arthur doesn't want to be weak, but he doesn't want to feel this way either, and he thinks maybe he'd trade the strength he's gotten from whatever this is for just having been happy his whole entire life.

+

Arthur's woken up a couple hours later when the plane lands. It's a pretty hard landing, so probably Skip.

The fog takes over until they all get to the hotel, and Arthur completely forgets what happened after they unloaded from the plane, except it was really cold. Usually the fog's pretty cold, so Arthur didn't really mind, but Russia's especially cold, so maybe he did.

He tried to smile.

That's all he remembers, and that's when he settles in his room, in his bed, all bundled up in the thick blankets. They're not in much of a hotel, but they're never in much of a hotel, so he doesn't mind.

It's late.

He doesn't know why he starts crying, but he does. It's not a good idea, because the room has twin beds and he's sharing with Skip because mum didn't come along this time. She said maybe the trip would cheer him up.

Skip's in the bed next to him and Arthur really hopes he hasn't heard. He bites down on his hand hard, not because he likes the pain or even feels it, but mostly because he wants to shut himself up like his dad wanted to shut him up when he cried when he was little and happy.

He should've taken his yellow pills, because those pills are magic, maybe. They help, at least.

Arthur hates crying, because men don't cry and he doesn't even really feel like crying and he hates it, hates the tears falling down his cheeks hot, hot, hot, burning.

"Arthur," he hears, really quiet from the other side of the room, and he tries to make himself really still like a possum playing dead so that Skip will think he's sleeping.

Skip doesn't believe him, though, because Arthur lets his tears shake him and a sob tear out of his chest, which hurts but he doesn't mind. Skip finally talks again after taking a deep breath, because he really is brave, but sometimes it's hard to tell. "Are you okay?"

Arthur tries to nod his head up and down, but it doesn't work so well, so he has to say "Yes," and it comes out funny and strangly.

"Are you sure?" Skip sounds sad. Arthur doesn't mean for anyone to be sad.

"I don't understand," Arthur finally says, because he's not so good at staying quiet. "I'm happy and I want to feel happy all the time, and I don't want to be sad again, but I am, and I can't stop. I can't just make myself happy, but I want to."

"Oh," Skip says, and his voice sounds small. "Oh," and now his voice sounds really, really...like he knows something. Like he's...understood something.

"I want the fog to go away, but it won't. It's been here before and I thought it was done and it's really bad right now, and what if it never goes away, Martin?" Arthur's trying really hard not to make sobbing noises. "Maybe I should just make it all stop, so I...so I won't hurt anymore." He shouldn't say things like that.

Skip takes in a little breath that doesn't quite sound like a normal, breathing breath, but the kind someone takes when someone else hits them. "Please, don't," Skip says really quiet. "Arthur, I know you feel awful right now, but it's gone away before...why shouldn't it...why shouldn't it go away eventually?"

"That's what everyone says. I...I forgot my pills."

"Oh." Skip goes completely silent. "I..." he says, but he stops talking because he doesn't know what to say, and after a minute he says, "Give me a quick second, Arthur."

And Skip leaves the room, because he's embarrassed of Arthur. Because he doesn't want them to be friends anymore. Arthur doesn't blame him.

But the funny thing is that Skip comes back.

With Douglas, but that's worse. "Go away," Arthur says, and his voice sounds like glass, like it might break, and he doesn't want it to be that way. Arthur wants to be strong. He's a man, he's supposed to be strong. He tells this to Douglas, who's really strong, so he'll get it. "I have to be strong, so you have to leave until I'm strong again."

There's a weight at his back. It's Douglas, sitting on his bed. It's not that big. It's not small either. Douglas sighs. "Oh, Arthur. Nobody can always be strong, especially not when their mind is hurting them like it's hurting you."

Arthur swallows hard and his tears going down his throat feel sharp.

Skip kneels in front of him, not too close, and Arthur closes his eyes tight so he doesn't have to look at Skip's face.

He can feel fingers carding through his hair and one single hand on his side, heavy but not in a bad way like the fog is. It's Douglas' hand, so the fingers in his hair must be Skip's. He feels a little better. Not that much better, but maybe a little bit more alright than before.

Arthur tries and tries and tries not to cry, but it doesn't work. He doesn't even want to. Crying doesn't fix anything, not ever. "I'm sorry," he sniffles. I'm stupid. I'm...not strong. I don't want you to..."

Douglas talks again, voice deep and soft and soothing. "Arthur, if you don't feel well sometimes, that doesn't mean we care any less about you. It just means we understand you a little better than we did yesterday. I know we call you a clot, but you're _ours,_ and you're doing us a disservice if you think we're going to abandon you.""

"We don't think you're a different person or weak or anything," Skip says, and it sounds like he's picking his words carefully. "And we don't think you're not strong, even if you're not happy all the time. It's...it's not that we don't want you to be happy...but maybe now we can help you...when you, you know, have a bad day."

Arthur lets out a soft sob, and he doesn't even know why. He still doesn't like crying in front of people, and he's not happy, but the fog's lifted just a little. He wants to say thanks because it's polite, but he doesn't think he can talk anymore. Instead he goes to sleep with the feeling of Douglas' warm hand on his arm and Skip's thin fingers running through his hair.


End file.
